


The Gaps You Leave Behind

by divingforstones



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Angst, Conference Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, M/M, Post S7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:54:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/divingforstones/pseuds/divingforstones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"How’d the stupid lanky git even manage to leave such a gap in Robbie's life, just by withdrawing?</p><p>How’d he ever come to so comfortably fill quite so many spaces in the first place?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gaps You Leave Behind

**Author's Note:**

> With lots of thanks to wendymr for very patient beta services.

 

Robbie hadn’t thought too much of it when his texted suggestion for a pub lunch had been turned down. It wasn’t exactly arranged, after all. More of a recently established, enjoyable, Saturday routine than a plan specifically made for that day.  Although there’d been nothing to suggest that it wouldn’t be happening, when they’d parted company Friday evening, in the station car park. But something could’ve come up.  His sergeant does have a life apart from Robbie, after all.

So it’s not until he reaches an early morning crime scene, on the Monday, that it hits him. He’s being fought off. With irreproachably polite efficiency, of course. It forms an impenetrable wall around James, very effectively deflecting Robbie from asking anything not strictly related to the case. Including the one thing he really wants to know: _what’s the matter, lad?_

From the sidelong looks Laura has been giving him, it’s now become pretty obvious to her, too. He sends her a shrug behind James’s back. Or possibly not quite behind James’s back, because said back stiffens and James spins round to face him. _Angry—_ Robbie registers, before the next onslaught of politeness begins.

“That’s all done. Did you need anything else from me? No?  You’re sure? I’ll get started on those calls then, will I? See you back in the office, sir. Doctor.” He nods to Laura.

Laura watches his sergeant disappear through the trees and then turns to him. He’s watching after James too, feeling bloody helpless if truth be told. “Goodness.”

“Aye.” He can think of stronger words, himself.

“Oh, he’s hating this just as much as you are, Robbie. Whatever it is.”

“Is he?”  Robbie wishes he could be half as sure as she is.

“Trust me. He looks a bit—wretched. Is it something on this case?”

But it’s not the case, he’s sure of that at least. This feels different, more personal, more directed solely at Robbie. That must be why it’s making him feel so—rubbish. This morning has told him two things. One is that this had probably started over the weekend, after all. The rejected offer of the pub lunch had been a red flag that he’d missed. Which means James has been simmering nicely for a while already, and will be rapidly approaching—well, completely unapproachable. The other is that he’s so angry at Robbie that he doesn’t quite care enough to hide it from Laura. He clumsily tries to express some of this to her now.

“It’s only me,” she says reassuringly. “Not like he’s letting Jean see it—that’s when you really have cause to worry. “

This is one of those jokes with some truth to it, so it’s a reassuring sort of thought to hold on to throughout the very long day with his impassive, abstracted, highly competent sergeant. Right up to the point last thing that evening, when they are summoned to give the daily briefing on the case. And then James does let Innocent see. Bloody hell.

As Innocent draws the briefing to a close, James rises so suddenly, and exits so smartly— _thank you, ma’am—_ that Robbie is left still sitting in front of her, stranded like a floundering fish, trying to recover his composure as he gazes after his sergeant. Who will now proceed to escape home, before Robbie can try and detain him. Did he know that Robbie was planning all day to drag him out for a pint? Of course he bloody did.

Innocent is amused—“ _Trouble, Robbie?”_  

Robbie doesn’t find it funny in the slightest.

******

The next day doesn’t bring any respite from it. Early that morning, they realise that this is going to be a very straightforward case. The young bloke they’ve brought in for questioning, on James’s hunch, has suddenly gone and confessed, tripped up completely by James’s quite inspired interrogation.

Robbie, leaning against the one-way glass, watching him, is quite glad to see Innocent appear. He just nods towards James, who is now thoroughly, comprehensively, and quite impressively chasing down all the details that will lead to making this a watertight case for the prosecution. That’s what the rest of their week will be spent doing, checking out those details.  

“That was right good,” he can’t help saying when James reappears. And he sees the answering flare of pleasure in James’s eyes, it’s there, but then the politely impassive expression immediately comes back down over his face again— _  
_

“Think it’s enough for now isn’t it, sir? Ma’am.” And his sergeant retreats with a nod once more. Innocent shoots Robbie an enquiring look. He does his level best to ignore it and follows James back to the office. He’s spotted an opportunity here.

“Sounds like a trip to the far reaches of Oxford is in order, then.”

“Doesn’t need both of us, does it, sir?” James frowns down at his paperwork. Unconvincingly. “Was hoping to get this done?” He could just pull rank and insist. Not much James could do about it. But that seems a bit—unfair, somehow. He gives him a resigned nod. As he gets ready to leave, he doesn’t miss the fleeting look of relief that passes over his sergeant’s face. God, he feels thoroughly out of sorts now.

On his way back, new resolution quickens his step. It’s near lunchtime. It’s a lovely summer’s day. He’s going to just somehow get him out of the office now, get him on his own, and see if that helps. If nothing else, he’ll just sit in total silence with him on a street bench. Watch the world go by and wait until the lad cracks and says _something_.

The moment he enters, James is on his feet, shrugging into his suit jacket. “Just heading out for lunch, sir.” And before he can even try to pretend he’s mistaken that for an invitation: “Can I get you anything, sir?”

“You can get me my sergeant back,” Robbie mutters to the empty, confining air of the office.

******

The same rapid exit trick at the close of that evening’s briefing sparks irritation in Innocent—“Is there something _wrong_ with Sergeant Hathaway, Inspector?”—and makes Robbie feel slightly murderous now. 

Bloody great the way James gets to disappear and he’s the one left with an empty chair beside him, trying to explain. An empty office to head back to and a fairly empty evening, as it turns out.

******

It’s taking longer than usual to get to sleep at night. The tension of the day doesn’t seem to be leaving his body, so he’s finding it more difficult to get comfortable. Does an after-work pint make that much difference to his ability to unwind? He’s not exactly stopped having the drink, so he can only assume that it’s the distracting, teasing company that has usually helped ease the day out of his mind.

You can become accustomed to relying on a support without thinking too much about it, until it gets pulled away from you and you realise it was part of the foundation holding you up.

He’s not even sure when the odd pint after work with his sergeant turned into a regular pint after work with James, and then became something—well, something that he feels the loss of. It’s only been a few days. Fine if the bloke was actually busy. But he’s not. He’s not busy, he’s obviously not all right, and waiting for him to come round enough so Robbie can get at whatever it is that’s suddenly eating at him this much is doing Robbie’s head in now.    

The next day, he bides his time until lunch time. He watches the clock, actually, and he’s just gearing up for the right words to try and get through to him— _want to get out of here for a bit, lad?_  —when James suddenly pre-empts him, rising suddenly and definitely _._

“Back shortly, sir, can I bring you anything? _”_ All Robbie does is ask for his usual instead. All right, still not ready to talk yet.

The bizarre thing is that he comes back empty-handed. He gives Robbie a cautious nod, avoids meeting his gaze properly and drops into his chair, ready to re-immerse himself. Then he must feel Robbie frowning at him, trying to work this one out, because he looks up suddenly. “God, sir, your lunch. I completely forgot.” 

“Well, that’s all right.” It is, too. He’s not even hungry. It’s just extremely unusual. James, at the height of a long night on a case, will eventually be driven outside by his cravings. Then he’ll come back from a cigarette break and shove unexpected things at Robbie from the late-night newsagent round the corner. Pre-packed sandwiches and fruit and bottled juice, and on one occasion a health food bar which turned out to be made entirely of seeds— _what the hell, sergeant?—_ He still suspects that that last aberration was some sort of private Hathaway joke.  

“I didn’t mean—” James is looking incredibly uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t not get you lunch, even if I’m—"

“Christ, I know that, James. Give over, it’s just a sandwich.”

“It’s just; I didn’t really get lunch anyway. Just—out to clear my head. You know.”

“Aye, I know. ‘S’all right. ” James is looking at him, relieved to be understood. He takes his chance: “Want to tell me why? Tell me what it is?”

“No.”

Robbie leaves it there. He’s got nowhere, really, but somehow the whole interaction has made him feel a bit better.  

So it’s just a bloody shame they have to go and brief Herself last thing that evening. 

James keeps eluding him. All week, physically as well as mentally. What he does leaving Innocent’s office is just the most pointed version of that. It’s all those moments when the atmosphere between them would normally switch out of work mode; all the many little moments during the working day when he used to glance for his sergeant and meet James’s warm, amused or affectionate gaze; just at those moments, James keeps—not being there. It’s bloody frustrating. At least, that’s the only explanation that Robbie can think of, later, for what he does next. 

It’s a sudden impulse, as they enter Innocent’s office, that makes him grab the chair closest to the door. James retreats impassively to the chair nearer the window. _Hah, got you_. Robbie shoves his chair well back once he’s seated, leaving little room to manoeuvre behind it, and stretches his legs out in front of it. Then he catches sight of Innocent staring at him, and hurriedly starts the briefing.   

It isn’t until the moment that he hears a “Thank you, ma’am” from directly above him that he realises what’s happening. James, not to be thwarted after all, is simply folding the long slim length of himself around the back of Robbie’s chair, actually tipping the chair, complete with Robbie still in it, towards Innocent’s desk.

“Hey!” says Robbie indignantly, but he’s talking to the air as he recovers as his balance, and James swiftly exits once more. 

Innocent is now severely torn between amusement and irritation: “Oh for God’s _sake,_ Inspector…”

********

How’d the stupid lanky git even manage to leave such an unfathomable hole in Robbie's life, just by withdrawing? How’d he ever come to so comfortably fill quite so many spaces in the first place? It’s not just the evening pints, or the loose-end weekends, he’d leave in his wake. It turns out it’s all the little, everyday things that Robbie misses. They make far more of a difference than he could’ve realised. Or, rather, what’s behind them. It’s quite something having a sergeant who cares enough to give you casual little lifts that ease your working day.    

When all of that disappears so suddenly, he has to remind himself that the bloke is just upset, he’s not stopped caring. He’s just acting hard like he doesn’t. As the week goes on, Robbie has to increasingly remind himself of that. 

So he pushes it just a little. In the crowded canteen on Thursday morning, with all their normal rhythms out of sync, he strives for a light-hearted approach to cut the silence while James busies himself making coffee. Because Laura was right. The lad does look a bit—wretched. He looks kind of like his night wasn’t that much more restful than Robbie’s.

“Not going to make mine today then, sergeant?”  James normally does, in fairness. Unnecessary though that is. He insists he knows the right amount of milk to add and the right way to stir it, of all things, to make a half-presentable cup out of the instant powder they have to work with. Then presents it gravely to Robbie like a gift, sometimes. The daft sod.

“Not really part of my duties, sir,” he says flatly now. 

A group of young DCs—probably sick of performing menial tasks themselves—find this incredibly funny, but it’s Grainger who says, grinning, “Having trouble keeping your sergeant in order there, Lewis?”

None of that bothers Robbie. What bothers Robbie is the low mutter at Grainger that he hears from James, as he passes him by, heading for the door: “I’m not _his_ sergeant.”

It makes no sense. Whatever way you look at it, James _is_ his sergeant. Everyone, from Innocent to the newest recruit, would label Hathaway as Lewis’s Sergeant. They’re partners. It’s a nonsense. So he doesn’t know why this feels like the worst moment of the whole bloody week. He’s had enough now.

When he gets back to their office, he doesn’t even look at James. He spends the rest of the morning buried in his own work, and they speak politely only when necessary regarding the case. He does take in that James sounds a bit chastened. Like he knows he’s gone too far. And he can feel the lad looking over at him sometimes as if he might want to say something after all. But he honestly can’t bring himself to look at him properly just now.

So it really is deeply unfortunate that they have to go and give Innocent the last briefing on the case. She can probably chart exactly how their week has deteriorated, just from the glimpses she’s had.

Robbie is past trying after this morning’s blow. He’s yielding to the inevitable. He doesn’t have the uncanny skill James has for sensing when she reaches the precise moment she’s willing to let them go. Besides, Innocent has been glancing between them throughout, and he knows he won’t be escaping her speaking her mind this time. When James—of course—makes his exit, he meets her eyes resignedly. She bends forward over her desk.   

“Robbie. Would you just take that boy down the pub and _talk_ to him.”

“Easy for you to say, ma’am,” he snaps back, stung. He’s not stupid. Even in the midst of his own pain here—because at this stage he’ll admit, just to himself, that it is actually painful—he knows James is distressed under the anger. Of course he does. He’d have blown up at him long before now if it wasn’t for that. The only reason he’s hanging on in here is that the stupid bloody sod obviously needs someone to talk to. If he can ever bring himself to do it. And you get absolutely nowhere with James Hathaway if you push him to talk before he’s ready _._  

It’s just that it’s really getting quite hard to be around him now while he outwaits him.  

“Oh,” says Innocent, thoughtfully.

He feels like he’s given himself away a bit, so he leaves as soon as possible. Back to his silent office, because James will have gone for lunch—or not lunch—without him. It’s not long before she follows him, though.

“The two of you were on call this weekend, right?”

“Aye.”

“Well, I’ve rearranged your schedules. You’re not any more. In fact, you’re no longer on duty tomorrow either.”

Christ, she must really think they need a break from each other. That really quite disturbs him. He can’t disagree, though. And, uncomfortable as it feels to be the recipient of her sympathy (“That’s— _thank_ you ma’am.”), he is also heartily relieved. He feels like going home, having more than one stiff drink and not giving one more thought to Detective Bloody Sergeant James Impassive Hathaway for the whole interminable bloody weekend. Some hope. But he’ll settle for not having to set eyes on him till Monday morning. 

Innocent holds up a hand. “Well, don’t thank me just yet.” A pamphlet falls on his desk, “There’s a conference in York…” Bugger. Well, still it’s getting him away from all this. And it’ll still provide some distraction from dwelling on James. York is nice.

“Obviously, you’re only getting in as a last-minute booking…you haven’t exactly been using up your allocation from the training budget anyway.”

Too busy doing his day-to-day job. And, this year, Innocent hasn’t pushed it. He had come that close to retiring last year, and James had actually got as far as handing in his resignation, before retracting it when Robbie decided to give it a bit more time. There seems to have been that bit more leeway afforded to them since then, where Innocent has room to do so.  He supposes it’s nice to be valued. 

“Cheap at twice the price in the circumstances, really,” she muses to herself.

“All right, ma’am.” He just wants her to go now.

She takes the hint. “You’ll tell Sergeant Hathaway,” she asks over her shoulder, as she leaves. But it’s not really a question. And she exits nearly as swiftly as James when he’s on the escape.

What? He has to follow her out into the corridor and go after her. “Ma’am? Tell James—what?” But, from the guileless expression on her face, he knows what’s coming. “No, honestly, ma’am…”

It’s another half hour before James returns, not looking as if his break did him the slightest good. Before he can either immerse himself, or pretend complete absorption, in his ever-fascinating computer screen, Robbie breaks the news. “We’re no longer on duty this weekend.”

“Oh.” James looks as relieved as Robbie had initially felt.

“We’re going to York instead.”

“What?”

“There’s a conference, we’ve got a cancelled place, we’ve to drive down tomorrow morning and it’s all weekend.” He stops short of telling him that they’ll also be cooped up in the one room together, because James actually looks quite angry. Furious. Well, this is the last thing Robbie would’ve wanted either but there’s no need to look quite like—that.  

Laura wasn’t in her office. Nothing is going remotely right today. He’s given up and is heading back up the stairs when he meets her coming down, branded cardboard cup in hand.

“Ah.” She takes one look at him and then hands the cup over. “Your need is obviously greater than mine…Did someone say you’re off to York?” He doesn’t say anything much, just leans against the wall, sipping the surprisingly good coffee, aware that’s she kindly taking a few minutes to distract him with station gossip. He wonders suddenly if he and James _are_ the station gossip at the moment, but it seems best not to ask.

“James owes you a nice coffee,” is all he says in the end. She smiles at him, but is decent enough not to say anything more.  

******

The next morning, there’s only one reason he can think of to be glad he’s not going alone. When he reaches James’s flat, he’s relinquishing the driver’s seat. Last night, he’d put off going in to bed and let himself doze off in front of some old film. It was the wrong move. He’d been unable to get to sleep for some time when he did get into bed and now today all the muscles in his shoulders and neck are combining to suggest to him that it really had been a stupid idea.

He can’t help thinking of the last time they’d had a long drive ahead, chasing down a lead on a case. He’d received a text from James just before he set off, instructing him to pick James up at that coffee place, ten minutes’ walk from the lad’s flat. When he‘d pulled up, his sergeant was propped up against the wall, two coffee cups in one of those ridiculous egg-carton trays balanced in one hand and a promising looking paper bag in the other. They’d been planning to stop, eventually, en route, so Robbie had been quite confused, at first.

“We’re about to hit traffic,” James had announced in lieu of a greeting. “I checked.”

Oh. Robbie had timed their departure early enough to avoid it, but not actually checked that morning. “Probably better to just get started all the same, lad, rather than wait it out,” he’d said half-apologetically. They differ on this. James had sent him a look of pure amused affection.   

Then it had dawned on him that James had completely expected this reaction and taken steps to get provisions in to ease the early part of their journey. He should have felt indulged. Or humoured. He hadn’t. He'd just felt the blessing of having someone in his life who knew him so well and somehow found all of his bloody-mindedness all right. More than all right.

Today, the contrast hits him hard, and suddenly seems to bring home all that’s been lost this week. 

His sergeant is waiting outside his flat. He tosses his weekend bag on the back seat, and once he gets in—with a polite, “Good morning sir, sleep well?”—he reaches forward and he starts turning dials on the radio. Without waiting for an answer. Robbie opens his mouth to ask him— _Can you take over, lad?  Shoulder’s a bit stiff —_ and closes it again. A wave of helplessness comes over him. It’s got nothing to do with his shoulders.

Turns out it was Radio 4 James was after—“You don’t mind, do you, sir?—and it’s not the worst idea for two people stuck in a car who don’t have much to say to each other. Quite a variety of items, although Robbie could personally live without their book of the week, no proper breaks and no music. So no room to talk if you’re as seemingly intent on every bit of it all, as James is.

Some of it even distracts Robbie from the headache he’s developing now, which must just be the result of spending hours in a warm car, on a close day. They’ve hit traffic. It’s just the thought that James had figured out in advance to select that station that’s depressing him.

They eventually eat a sandwich in the car, at a small service station, rather than stop properly. Last time, James had researched two alluring options which only involved a very minor detour off the route— _I don’t mind, lad, you decide—_ and he can’t believe he’s so nostalgic for last month.

James seems almost friendly by the time they finally reach the hotel, on the outskirts of York. It turns out that’s the relief at being able to go off on his own for the time they have left before the conference starts. Except he can’t.

“I’ll just check in and freshen up—see you at the seminar, sir.”

He hadn’t meant to neglect to tell him about the shared room situation. He really hadn’t. He’d just forgotten that he hadn’t worked up to saying it yesterday. Because of the reaction he thought he’d get. But not disclosing it is obviously far worse. _Bugger._

 James really does not like to be trapped.

******

It seems a very long way to the room, even though it’s on the ground floor. He tells himself this is because the hotel is a lovely old sprawling building. But in reality, now they’re out of the car, Robbie’s shoulders are causing him actual pain in a way that makes him wonder how he’s going to survive sitting in a seminar room for the next two hours. Two more hours beside a politely unreachable James. His whole being seems to be objecting strongly to the idea. The pain seems to be spreading properly up his neck now.

His sergeant is striding ahead without a backward glance, the set of his own shoulders communicating very clearly that he realises Robbie knew about this shared room situation. Christ, he really cannot handle much more of this. James has just left the door open for Robbie, when he gets there.

It’s a big, light room. Two double beds parallel to a huge window, almost a wall of glass. It’s probably a very nice room. Robbie can’t really take in any more details. He clicks the door shut in relief, drops his bag and suit jacket anywhere and makes his way past James, without looking at him, to the bed by the window. He does take in that there’s an impressive garden, but at the moment all he cares about is the bed. He sits down on the far edge of it, still trying to focus on the view.

Because stupidly, he feels almost ill with all of it. He struggles slightly to kick off his shoes, while bending as little as possible. “We’ve not got long before we’re due downstairs for a two-hour session, sergeant, so…” He waits. The blessed silence behind him tells him that he should have at least a few minutes’ peace to try and recover while James takes the hint and goes to indulge his habit before the session starts.

So he is unprepared for the weight settling on the edge of the mattress, right next to him, and the low voice in his ear.

“Hey. What’s wrong? Robbie?”  

It takes him by surprise, so he can’t speak.

“It’s your back, is it? Here, let me—” There is a warm palm pressing into the small of his back through his shirt. Then the hand starts travelling up his back, fingertips probing slightly as if James thinks he can identify the cause of the pain purely by touch. James has his head tilted sideways, frowning at him, but Robbie is feeling completely overwhelmed now and can’t bring himself to turn to meet his eyes. He hears the intake of breath as James’s hand discovers the tight iron bar that’s taken up residence in place of Robbie’s shoulders. The hand stills.

“Come on, lie down. It’ll feel better. Trust me _._ ” He does. He lies down on his front, lets his head rest on the blessedly cool pillow, turned away from the glare of the sunlight. He feels James’s weight settle next to his hip on the edge of the mattress. He feels the other man’s hip brush against his own as James leans over, reaching for his far shoulder. His hands, his lovely gentle fingertips, seem to be finding the true extent of the damage.

“God, you are a _stubborn_ bastard,” he says in wondering tones. “Why the hell did you drive us all the way here?”

Robbie can’t really say. At first, it was just the blow of being joined in the car by polite Sergeant Hathaway, instead of by James. Then, it had seemed infinitely better to have the distraction of driving, rather than be stuck in the passenger seat beside a silent, focused driver. In the end, it had just seemed stupidly, miserably hard to ask. And, honestly, he hadn’t felt the real impact in his shoulders until they got here.  

“We didn’t even stop for you to have a proper break,” James is realising now. But he seems to be talking to himself. And his hands are gently, gently working at the painful stiffness of Robbie’s shoulders. It seems entirely too much effort to even try and explain any of it any more.

**********

“Hello,” says James gravely.  

Well. This is confusing. He’s lying on his side on a very comfortable bed, and James is sitting beside him, right beside him on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt now. Barefoot. With his knees humped up, and a big doorstopper of a book resting on them. Looking down at him. “You fell asleep,” James elaborates.

Oh. But he can’t work out what time of day or night it is, because there’s something funny about the light level in the room. 

“Hold on.” James, still regarding him, seems to have worked out the cause of his confusion because he swings himself off the bed and pads, those bare feet sounding softly on the deep carpet, around the foot of the bed. Then the room is flooded with light as he hears the curtains open. He doesn’t turn to watch because he’s not risking moving his shoulders just yet and because he’s hoping…

Yes, that’s what he’s hoping. James reappears, settling back down in the same position now, right next to him, minus the book. He looks down at Robbie again. Robbie looks up at him _._ No, he definitely doesn’t want to move at all _._ But “…don’t we have a seminar to get to?”

“Might have missed that boat, sir. By a couple of hours, I’d say.” Christ. Robbie lifts his arm to look at his watch. Oh. He looks back up at James, who is regarding him curiously, frowning a bit. “You were well out of it—for ages.”

“Aye. Well. I haven’t been sleeping that well, past few nights.” He moves his shoulders cautiously, remembering. Not great, but a whole lot better. The headache, he realises, is gone. He risks moving to settle on his back, further up on the pillows. Still close to James.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better, lad. Definitely better. Where on earth d’you learn to do that, then?”

“I didn’t.” James is surprised. “I just did what seemed to help—until I realised you’d drifted off.”

It comes to Robbie that the real comfort that had overwhelmed him, just before he fell asleep, came not from some miraculous massage technique, but from the fact that the gentle touch, and the low soothing voice, had been James’s.

“Did you go?” He pulls himself out of his thoughts to ask.

“‘Course, sir.” Model of a prim and proper sergeant. “Signed you in as well, actually,” James adds conspiratorially. “It was that busy, they’ll never know. And I can do your signature perfectly.”

“I doubt they know my signature— “ Robbie stops. Focusing on the wrong thing here. “What d’you mean, you can—” On second thoughts, best not to ask. But why’d the lad come back to sit in a curtained room beside him, then, straining his eyes over a book? It’ll be light for hours yet. The gardens look amazing in the sun.  

James must’ve opened the French windows at some point, because what breeze there is is making its way into the room. It’s taking the edge off the day’s heat, at last. Robbie feels much more human after his extended siesta, anyway. But he could still do with a cool shower, and changing out of these clothes. Because he’s aware that James is freshly showered and looking a bit endearingly damp around the edges.

“Don’t move, you,” he orders. “Just going to freshen up. Won’t be long.” As he goes to investigate the ensuite, he’s aware that James is looking delighted to be told to stay put on the bed. Well, good.

******

“Tea?” James asks, when Robbie has gingerly resettled himself, lying on his back again. He looks like he literally hasn’t moved while Robbie was absent. Robbie had rapidly discovered that a cool shower needed to be quite a hot one, to try and keep his shoulders relaxed. He really doesn’t want to risk moving too much again now, either. “There’s proper milk in that fridge, sir,” James confides.

He doesn’t really want tea. His eyes fasten on a familiar-looking bottle on James’s bedside table. Robbie’s preferred brand.

“Ah.” James has tracked his gaze. He gets up again and heads for the fridge. Comes back with a similar bottle for Robbie, beaded with condensation, and puts in within easy reach. Pads back around the bed and, as he settles himself down once again, becomes aware of Robbie’s questioning look. “What?”

“They never stock this in that fridge?”

“No, well, just generic stuff. I thought you’d like this better. There’s a well-stocked bar downstairs. I persuaded them earlier to sell me a few. I thought we could have a proper drink together. Seeing as you’ve been sort of—asking.” It’s a Hathaway-style apology for the many times he’s avoided giving Robbie the chance to ask him for a pint, over the week.

Robbie feels his way. “Well, that was—right nice of you,” he says. He sees the relief on James’s face that he’s not being questioned further yet. “You hungry?” he asks, after a bit of further silence. Robbie’s not, it’s far too nice lying here to bother, but then he’s aware that he spent the afternoon asleep.

“No, but I suppose I could get stuff, for later,” James offers slowly.

“You’re forgetting the joys of room service.” 

“D’you want anything else, sir? I mean there’s probably a pharmacy near enough if you need painkillers…”

Robbie just doesn’t want him to go anywhere.  “No need, I’ll be all right.”  He just wants to lie here now like this. But his phone is buzzing with an incoming message. Bugger. Reaching for it causes more pain in his shoulder. So does reaching for the beer bottle, but he’s already working out how to solve that, by picking it up less often, and taking much longer sips to compensate.

“Laura,” he tells James. “So do you require my services this weekend?” he reads aloud. James is looking at him very oddly. His face almost seems to be arranging itself back into that damned impassive mask.

“Do you normally require her services of a weekend, sir?” he asks. 

He’s not actually joking at all. What the hell? “She’s wondering if I’ve given in and murdered you yet,” Robbie explains.

“Oh.”  James looks very—relieved. Huh.

“Nice of her to text,” Robbie tells him, “seeing as she’s headed off on a romantic weekend by now.”

 _“Is_ she?” James looks absolutely fascinated.

“Aye. It’s going on a while now. Well, she seems happy and he sounds decent, so—” He stops midsentence. “I’m not discussing her love life with you, lad,” he says bluntly.  

“I wasn’t asking about _her—_  ”James also stops midsentence. Starts again. “But you talked to her about …”

“Your temper? Not really. But you owe her a coffee.” His sergeant seems to accept this assignment without question.

“First thing, Monday morning,” he undertakes solemnly. “It’ll be waiting for her. On a slab. In her morgue. What sort of a coffee?”

Robbie frowns. What _was_ that? “Smaller cup than usual. Not that foamy. Strong. Maybe too strong for me. Didn’t taste too strong but might’ve been a bit too much of a jolt.”

“So _you_ want a half-caff flat white,” says James, to himself, obviously adapting and memorising Robbie’s new coffee order. Robbie feels a wave of affection. It’s the little details, with James.

“The languages you do speak, lad,” is all he says, mock-admiringly. Come to think of it, the comfort from the coffee had probably been a lot less to do with the contents of the cup, and more to do with Laura’s ready sympathy. He reaches for his phone again to jab out a message; “ _He bought me proper beer. Stay of execution. But thanks for the offer.”_ She’ll get it from that. He reaches for the beer bottle and finds it empty already. Possibly this longer sips strategy is working a bit too well.  

James has noticed too. “Christ, slow down, sir,” he chides. “I had a head start. No need to play catch-up.” But he’s headed for the fridge area again already, and comes back with two open bottles in one hand, long necks held between long crooked fingers.

He has to stop looking at James’s hands. He’d known they were adept, those fingers, he’s seen them play guitar. He just hadn’t _felt_ how adept they could be until today. He focuses on James’s face instead, as the lad sets down the bottle of water he holds in his other hand, on Robbie’s bedside table. Sees him reach for a piece of paper that Robbie hadn’t noticed before, his expression immediately guarded.

“Left you a note, earlier,” he explains when he sees Robbie’s scrutiny. It’s the over-casual tones that clue Robbie in that this is significant.

“Give it here, then,” he says as casually as possible. Sometimes it’s like trying not to spook a wild animal, with James. James surrenders it impassively and retreats back around to his side of the bed.

Robbie unfolds it and stares at it: _“Have gone to opening session. Will take copious notes. Suggest you just rest, sir, honestly. Meet you here? Will come straight back.”_   He looks at James, who is looking a bit flushed, watching Robbie take in the note.

“Where d’you think I was going?”

“I was just… I wanted to say…”

He wanted to say he wasn’t avoiding Robbie anymore. “All right," Robbie says. Not unkindly. James gives him a nod, then suddenly slides down to lie flat on his own pillows beside him now. Turns his head so he’s facing Robbie. Looks at him, tentatively. He’s got something else he’s working up to say. Hopefully he’s about to open up about this whole godawful week, at last.

He isn’t. “Look, sir,” he says awkwardly, instead. “I just—well, if you want to tell me what it is, I’m more than happy to listen.”

“Eh?”

“I mean, I realise I’ve been—caught up in my own stuff this week—and I didn’t notice that you were struggling, but if it helps to tell me…” 

“James.”

But James is having enough trouble verbalising this, and isn’t to be deterred. “I mean, you’ve said you aren’t sleeping properly, your shoulders are tense as hell, you seemed quite—low—suddenly, earlier and, well, you’re getting through your beer a bit quicker than usual, sir.” He finishes apologetically.

“Fucking hell.” He swears under his breath, but James’s ear is far too near to Robbie’s mouth for him to miss it.

“Sir?”

Robbie sits up against the headboard. James pushes himself back up to sit beside him, without taking his eyes off him. Pure concern in his eyes. _The lad means well, he means well_ , he tells himself. He’s concerned about Robbie. He’s apologised for his temper. He’s just not putting things together. There is a long silence while Robbie tries to find the words. To somehow make this come out very calmly. He can’t.

 _“You’re_ what’s the matter with me. What did you think, you could just shove some distance between us and I’d not bloody mind? Not worry? Go home happy at the end of each day and get a good night’s kip? Just leave you to it? I _mind._ I bloody _mind_.  I _worry._ I don’t bloody _sleep_.” James has the cheek to look genuinely astonished which only makes him angrier. “Christ, for someone with your brains, lad, you can be incredibly bloody _stupid.”_

“But that doesn’t make any sense—I mean, she told me, Innocent, how you said it was time I moved on to do my inspectors—”

Oh God, James and that flaming course. “No-one is going to make you apply for a promotion if you don’t want one! It’s not bloody compulsory!” Then he takes in what James had said. “And I never said that, either. Why _would_ I?”

“You did. She told me.”

“What _exactly_ did she say?”

“I forgot my phone in the office, on Friday evening. She collared me when I went back in for it and told me there’s a new intake for the course, next month.”

“Aye, she collared me, earlier that day, too.” He hadn’t even mentioned it to James. No need to.

Every few months, they’ve been doing this dance with Innocent. She has another go at pushing James up the career ladder he was earmarked for, years ago. She seems to think it’s an effective way of keeping James within the force. James politely resists. Robbie is occasionally pulled in, by one or the other, and firmly backs James up. He knows now. He knows to let James decide this one for himself. James always seems disproportionately pleased at Robbie’s support. Innocent is not so pleased. And it all makes Robbie think of a conversation, by a river, one evening at sunset.

_If you go, I go._

“She said, she thought it was time to push forward on this and that I was more than able for a new challenge and—Inspector Lewis agreed—with her.”

All Robbie’s anger evaporates immediately in the face of the obvious distress. “God, you _are_ stupid, you are,” he says again. But his tone is very gentle and he reaches over to pull James’s head right down onto his own stiff shoulder as he says it. James buries his head in a bit.

“Am I?” he says in muffled tones.

“Aye. Stupidest bugger I’ve ever come across, that’s what you are at times.” He reaches up a little further to tousle the other man’s hair.

“Really?”

“Yeah. By far.” He runs his knuckles down James’s jawline, presses gently against his cheek, to turn James that bit farther into him.

“Okay.” James’s voice is becoming even more muffled. He seems to be trying to lose himself in Robbie’s shoulder, Robbie’s neck. “Tell me more about how stupid I am,” comes the mumbled demand after a moment. Robbie chuckles.

They stay like that, until James obviously remembers Robbie’s shoulders, and he raises his head, looking stricken.

“Aye, it’s all right, James. Hold on.”  

Robbie slides back down to lie back on his pillows, and then reaches up to pull the lad down so James is also lying on his back, across the bed, but with his head on Robbie’s chest. James has to hump his knees up so his long legs don’t dangle off the bed, but he seems completely happy with that. And Robbie wants to nurse his head for a little bit, and watch his face, while he talks to him. “She asked if I had some sort of reservation about your ability, that was it. So I told her just how able you are. That’s what she meant, lad, that’s all she meant.”

There is sheer relief on James’s face.

“You didn’t really think I was trying to give you up? That I’d stay on in this job, but let you go?”

“Not that, no. I just thought that she’d worn you down to just agree with her.  That—you just didn’t mind as much as me. As much as I’d mind. Being split up from you.”

_Ah, James._

He doesn’t say anything. He just slides one arm across the lad’s chest to anchor James more firmly to him. James immediately captures his hand with one of his own.

“You could’ve talked to me about it, you know,” Robbie says eventually. “Met me on Saturday, as usual? Had it out? Would’ve saved us both a bloody awful week.” James, who had begun to play idly with Robbie's fingers, stills his hand a moment.

“No, I couldn’t,” he says, very low. Too raw to talk about it. Well, he can sort of understand that. He’d have made a better go at handling this week himself if he hadn’t been feeling quite so sore at James’s avoidance of him. If it hadn’t mattered quite so much to him, too.

It’s quite hard to believe, this. That they’re lying, here, like _this,_ on a bed that they seem to have decided to share. That James, far from retreating after all, is right back with him, right here like this. He tightens his arm across the other man’s chest a bit more. James, face turned towards him still, nestles his head in a little deeper and gazes at him.

“Comfy?” is all Robbie says, eventually.

“Never comfier in my life,” James says fervently.

“Aye, you’re good at folding yourself into small spaces, aren’t you? Should’ve known better than to try and trap you with a chair.”

“Your _face,”_ says James appreciatively now, remembering.

“Aye, well.” Robbie has been thinking about those briefing sessions, in Innocent‘s office, in a whole new light. James’s quick exits had obviously been prompted by a desire to avoid Innocent and Robbie together, the two of them combining to pressure James about the course. Something else has been falling into place for Robbie, too.

“Tell me something, did you land up taking copious notes at that session today, then?”

James frowns. “No—none of it seemed very relevant. Actually, they gave us a whole overview of the conference and none of it seems like much use at all to you. Or me.”

Robbie smiles down at him in all his confusion. “Yeah. I think this is more what she’d call a team-building exercise. I reckon it was probably your little daily performances got us sent here.”

He watches James work this out. Then he breaks into one of those slow, full-burn, grins that completely takes over his features, lights them up. “Well. Well done, me, then.”

 _Christ, he’s bloody irresistible. God help me._ They need to take this a little bit slow, he tells himself… It’s useless. James gazes back at him and all the levity slowly leaves his face.  _We need to take this a little bit slow,_ Robbie prepares to tell him. But he’s gazing back at the lad, his lad, his James, quite helplessly, almost mesmerised.

And James, without removing his eyes from his for a second, releases Robbie’s hand, gently removes Robbie’s arm, and then sits up, leans his own arm right over Robbie to prop himself up, and moves that little bit forward to close that last gap between them.  

When he feels James’s lips on his own, he stops thinking altogether.

There is only this left, the two of them on this bed, in this big, light room, and he is being kissed so gently, so tenderly that he is almost breathless with the gift of it. It isn’t until they stop, James’s head now buried in his shoulder once more, that he realises why there is no need to hold back here, after all. No need at all.

Because this is James.

******

They have re-settled themselves on the bed, Robbie still lying on his back, but less because of any fear of pain now, and more to freely give a shoulder to James. Who seems to quite like his shoulders, it turns out. Daft lad. James is lying messily on his front, one each of his legs and his arms draped over Robbie, and his head lying low on Robbie’s shoulder, so that he, too, is gazing out the open window at the garden. So Robbie can dip his head a little and look at his face _._ It’s that last magical hour of changing light on a long summer’s evening.

“You really think I’m responsible for getting us sent here?”

Robbie presses a hand to his back, to settle him in that bit further. “I really do. And what’s more, I strongly suspect it won’t matter how many sessions we miss.” Innocent will just be delighted that her own machinations have removed the friction between two of her most effective officers. No need for her to know what else has taken its place. 

“It won’t matter, for example, if we have a lie-in instead in the morning, and then I take you out to brunch.” He can tell that James is considerably startled but also charmed at the idea.  

“Really?” he asks shyly.

“Really.” Lad doesn’t quite seem to believe this either. Well, they can feel their way together, so. “And then—did you know I’ve been here before? It’s been a fair few years, but I can show you round. Well, it’s even more your sort of town than mine, pet. I know where to go, where to find the places to see, but I’ll bet you’ll know more about them when we get there.” The Minster _,_ James will like the Minster.  

“Really.” He’s not questioning Robbie’s suggestions for the day. He’s just in wonder that Robbie is suggesting these things at all.

“Aye. Well, when you’ve finally had your fill of sightseeing, there’s a really nice beer garden that I’ll bet I could find for us again.” James is just looking at him. It comes to him then that he would traipse around any amount of cathedrals, just to keep being the cause of that look on the lad’s face.

“Really, James. Really.”

******

It’s started to rain now. It’s finally cool. They’re so near the height of summer that the sky is still retaining light, just shot through with a darker blue. The rain sounds wonderful on the earth and the leaves of the garden, right outside the open window. He reckons they should both just lie here and listen to it for a bit, James held safe against him.

It’s been a really long week.

 


End file.
